the w o r s t kind of lonely
by winteredspark
Summary: /"your lungs will give out on you if you keep that up," they say, gesturing to the cigarette in her hand. "you'll die." she kind of laughs, wonders when the thought of death became better than the pretenses of living./ Or, Constance's last days.


the _worst_ kind of _l_onely;

summary: "your lungs will give out on you if you keep that up," they say, gesturing to the cigarette in her hand. "you'll die." she kind of laughs, wonders when the thought of death became better than the pretenses of living.

**a/n: i don't know about any of you, but i loved constance's character. so much depth, regret, ughhhhh. i loved it. so i had to write a one-shot about her and it's sfoewfsihesofhefahawfi. idk. your thoughts are welcome(:**

* * *

><p><strong>i;<strong>

"mrs. langdon."

_"ms."_

she says it with a kind of incredulous sneer, one that turns her lips into a convincing smile and her eyes into ice. her fingertips run along the wall and she can't remember when she started wishing that they could be haunted with the past, just a little bit. just a little bit

of

blood, and she won't be alone anymore.

"your neighbors have reported some disturbing behavior on your end." the officers sit in the chairs, backs straight, eyes peeled for anything.

she nearly has to laugh. the only reason anyone would want to check up on her anymore is because she's connected to the damn murder house. that horrible house holding her children's ghosts captive; sometimes when she's sleeping

her fingers knot a little bit

and she imagines tearing it down, setting them free.

because as much as she hates to be alone in this old house with no ghosts, no memories whispering from the darkest corners, she hates seeing her family unhappy. she hates seeing them passing day to day - playing cards, laughing as though they have some kind of _future_ - and knows that inside they must be screaming.

because they can't get out, even if they want to. they can't be free.

"ms. langdon?" they're looking at her, will never believe her if she actually tells the truth.

"i'm fine," she tells them with an arching smile she's practiced in front of the mirror since she was a little girl.

they give her their card on the way out, tell her to call if she needs anything

- in other words, _don't stand in the bathroom and cut yourself, try to end yourself. because even sociopaths deserve to live and be happy._

* * *

><p><strong>ii; <strong>

the lights are bright as she steps inside, closing the door gently behind her. they cascade over her, almost telling her hello.

she's memorized the routes through the house, the little passages that lead her down to the basement. they're all crowded about the chess board, chanting on travis and nora as the duo strikes their various moves. if they sense her, they do not show it.

and so constance is allowed a glimpse into their lives for just a second, free to watch them.

to realize, yet again, what she's done.

"is tate down there?" a soft voice whispers by her ear.

constance jumps a little, straightens her pinned hair. she turns to meet violet's bottomless eyes.

"yes," constance says. she glances back down the stairs. "would you like me to tell you about him?"

"no."

violet tugs her by the hand anyways and they wind up and up until they are in the attic. the cobwebs, the mumblings of bo in the corner as he rolls his little red ball between his hands - it's not quite where she belongs, but closer to anything she has in life.

"there is -" constance begins, "hate in my boy's eyes."

the rubber ball is rolled towards violet and, with a little smile, the girl rolls it back into the shadows of the attic.

"why?" violet asks, though the way she says it makes it seem like she already knows.

"i don't know," constance says (lies.)

"why do you keep coming back here if you don't know?" violet asks.

_idon'tknow idon'tknow idon'tknow i _

"sometimes the world of the dead is better than the world of the living," constance says softly.

the attic door swings shut behind her.

* * *

><p><strong>i;<strong>

"ms. langdon, we need to talk," the officer says.

she lets him bang on the door a little longer, rolls a joint, lights the tip.

(god, the smoke is beautiful. she feels euphoric.)

"we found violet's body."

constance smiles. _finally, something to hurt for, to feel for._

"where?" she asks as she opens the door slowly, playing the part. her eyes are perfect circles of shock.

"outside the murder house, half torn apart by fleas, mostly rotted."

constance watches the fear play across the man's face, watches him try to hide it. she tries to remember feeling all the pain so long ago, watching her children slip away from her. it's gotten to the point where she's so numb she wonders if she's even living.

her heart beats just to remind her she is.

"i'm so sorry to hear that, officer," she says, rolling her tongue across her lipstick, smudging it, exhales delicious smoke into his face.

"your lungs will give out on you if you keep that up," he says, gesturing to the cigarette in her hand. "you'll die."

she kind of laughs, wonders when the thought of death became better than the pretenses of living. then -

"unless you have a warrant, i'm afraid you have no right to be on my property."

she slams the door in his face, smiles and means it (when was the last time that happened, she wonders.)

* * *

><p><strong>ii; <strong>

sometimes she's too tired to walk back to her own house (not just because this is really her home

but because she's getting old, weak, dying slowly.)

sometimes she sleeps in the murder house, in the room where she shot her husband and moira, in the room where her son raped vivian, in the bed with the splattered blood on the edge of the sheets from something far in the past no one can even bother remembering.

"hey there."

a whisper, a touch. she's looking into travis' warm eyes.

when her eyes flash open, she's alone.

"i'm so sorry, baby," she whispers into the darkness, a scream bottled in her throat. this is just one of those moments when she's scared stiff, doesn't even know why.

_sosorrysosorry you died sosorry you can'tever leave this house _

"you're not the one who killed me," the whisper says. she can't see him, knows he's there.

she hates the fact that he won't appear so that she can see him, hates that she blames herself for his death even though she's not the one who stabbed him in the first place. she might as well have killed him, what with all her demeaning taunts, all her verbal lashes. all the kisses that meant nothing, all the sex, the meaningless touch.

"not now, travis," a voice says.

travis' presence exits the room, constance folds further into herself, feels the way tate's eyes seem to pierce right through her.

"i don't hate all the time," tate says.

"i know, baby," constance says, takes his hand in her own, sighs when his fingers wrap around her own.

"why did you even have me?" tate asks, takes a step away. his fingers nearly slide out of hers and she doesn't think she can take losing him too.

"i don't know." _we shouldn't have, because when we did, i was just trying to get your father to stay, trying to get him to love me. but then you came, tate, and i loved you so much. so much. _

"when did you stop wanting to live?" he asks.

there's a scream, her own. in her head, spinning, poisoning. "stay with me tonight, honey. i'll answer all your questions in the morning."

there is a rustle by the door, violet's eyes watching tate, tate watching her. it isn't until dawn breaks, light flooding the room and bringing with it the first sign of chills that constance realizes her son - her baby boy - spent all night by her side, holding her.

* * *

><p><strong>iii;<strong>

she thinks that, when he looks at her, he's kind of looking right through her.

"i gave you everything," she says, tries to kiss him.

he moves away, and constance rushes to the nursery, bends over so that she can look at her baby boy. those little fingers, those big brown eyes, that smile; he's beautiful, the most beautiful thing she's ever seen in her life.

she picks up him, croons as she rocks him from side to side. "mommy's always going to be here, tate," she whispers as she cries, wonders when she stopped being good enough for her husband.

she pretends that she's invincible, but no, she knows she really not.

(soon enough it all crumbles; constance catches him with moira, shoots them both, starts this horrible mess.)

* * *

><p><strong>i;<strong>

"ms. langdon."

"_mrs_." she stands in her kitchen, the place she belongs. the same officer stops by her home every day now, just to make sure she's not leaving town. they suspect her of violet's death - she's actually innocent with that one, but let them hypothesize. at least it's something to brighten up her day.

"ms. langdon, your husband has been gone a long time now."

they never actually say the word _dead_, she muses.

"but he's not," constance says, knows she shouldn't. "he's always going to be in that house, mocking me, watching me, even when i think he's really gone. no, he's not. _none_ of them are gone. they're all there, watching me, hating me for everything. they're stuck there, and i wish more than anything i could free them, but i can't, god damn it!" tears burn in her eyes like sapphires, and she watches the officer write something down, pull out his phone.

"everything's going to be alright, ms. langdon. i'm going to get you some help now."

he backs towards the door, keeping his eyes on her. she grabs her pack - her addiction from the table, lights one, presses it against her lips. despite the tears rolling down her cheeks, she's got her head held high, proud, like she's untouchable.

it's all about appearance.

* * *

><p><strong>ii; <strong>

"tate!" she runs through the murder house like a mad woman, eyes wheeling, short of breath. "tate langdon!"

he appears in front of her, hair tousled by a hand he'll never reveal, though it's always been obvious they belong together. constance can practically sense violet's half-smile as she throws her arms about her son, screams into his shoulder.

"can you forgive me for doing this to you?" she whispers when she's gained control of herself.

he just stares at her with those deep, beautiful brown eyes and she knows that he'll never be able to say _yes_ or _no_. he can't say _yes_ because what she's done is permanent, irreversible and he just can't forgive her for that; can't say _no_, because she's his mother and no matter what she does he loves her anyways.

her fingers trace his cheeks. "i know a way to make it better, honey," she whispers, smiles up at him and means it.

"goodbye, mama." he chokes on tears, disappears down the stairs, violet's hand twined with his own.

she's so proud of him.

* * *

><p><strong>i; <strong>

no one ever told her how much

dying

_hurts_.

* * *

><p><strong>iv; <strong>

there's a sort of thrumming coming from the murder house. she feels it as she stands over her body, traces the wounds with her eyes. she cannot remember how long it took to die, how it felt in the very end.

but she has eternity to remember.

her fingers brush the wall separating her from the murder house, from them and she tries to force herself over it. something shoves her back and she's lying in her kitchen again, left to stare at her body, at the blood. If she looks down she can see the edges of herself swirl with the surroundings, beckoning her into the nothingness.

_ghosts do not belong in the open, dead, gone, there is nothing left here but the living you sought so hard to escape._

the walls of the house seem to be quivering, whispering to her. no longer are they silent, taunting, driving her to madness. she wonders when the ghosts were going to reveal themselves, before realizing

that she is the

only one

here.

constance rolls a joint, sits in one of the chairs. exhales, watches the smoke twirl (how beautiful euphoria can be, how deadly.) she stills the trembling in her fingers, remembers the days she'd used to chase tate around the backyard, remembers the look on her face when the pillow with bo's blood is thrust into her face.

tears burn in her eyes; she doesn't try to blink them away. because only now does she understand that living isn't the worst kind of loneliness, because even when you have the worst days in the world there is enough love to provide redemption, enough love to keep you going, enough hands to hold.

living isn't the worst kind of loneliness. not even close.

being alone is.

constance exhales, watches the smoke curl, watches a tear fall, and laughs. she laughs, and laughs and laughs.

_now i'm stuck too, tate. am i forgiven? _

f i _n_


End file.
